


Soultouch

by Moami



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Touch-Starved, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:30:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moami/pseuds/Moami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Hajime’s just always adored him, in secret and silence, deep down in the bottom of his whole being.<br/>Maybe it’s always been like this and he just didn’t know.</p><p>And that's why he can’t touch Tooru anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soultouch

It happens so softly, gentle and soundless like a dream. Maybe that’s why Hajime is already lost and trapped before he sees the danger.

“And then I just told her, _‘sorry, I need to focus on volleyball’_. She cried a bit, but I think she’s going to be okay.”

Tooru bounces in his step as he walks by Hajime’s side, his bag slung over one shoulder. It’s a tradition that they go to school together, just like they did years ago, in an elementary school that’s now closed and grown over with ivy and dirt.

Tooru laughs and raises his face to the early morning sun. He touches Hajime’s shoulder, holds on to it so he can close his eyes and walk safely. “I just don’t have time for a relationship, I told her. I mean, kissing’s always nice, don’t you think? I like it. But I don’t want a girlfriend.”

Hajime sighs and stares forward, hands buried in his pockets. “Mhm,” is all he grumbles back at Tooru. The touch of Tooru’s hand sears his shoulder, even through the fabric. He shakes it off and walks faster, but –

“Are you okay, Hajime?” Tooru’s face appears in front of his own, and Hajime jolts.

“Don’t do that!” he snaps, but Tooru just laughs and boops his nose. He’s bouncing backwards in front of Hajime, bag bobbing against his hip. He’s got a slender waist, Hajime thinks, and hates himself a bit. His hands would look nice on it. Holy shit, he’s an idiot. “Seriously, stop doing that.”

“Aww, you don’t mean that,” Tooru says. “You like it when I care for you. Don’t get all grumpy again, okay? Or you’ll never get a girlfriend. And you want a _really_ cute girl to like you, right? I bet you’d be a real gentleman as a boyfriend!”

 _I don’t want a girl,_ Hajime thinks. _I’m a stupid idiot who feels more for you than any of those girls, even though I know how you look when you cry_. _I want –_

“I don’t want a girlfriend, either.”

Tooru lifts a brow. “Really.” Then his smile returns and he slaps Hajime’s shoulder. “Alright, then. Maybe it’s better, then we can both focus on volleyball. But if you ever wanna kiss one, I’m sure that you’ll find a sweet girl for that.”

“Yeah.”

_You don’t know whom I want to kiss. You don’t know how gorgeous you are, Tooru._

Somewhere between all those infinitesimal gestures of their childhood, between giggled laughs and the dark warmth of Tooru’s eyes, the touch of his fingertips over Hajime’s skin and hair, he’s let his best friend too deep into his soul. Now he’s always there, in every breath and thought, and the touch of his hand against Hajime’s body has become his poison and ambrosia.

Sometimes Hajime wonders how far he even had to fall. Not a lot, probably, he’s been buried with feelings for Tooru since – oh. Well.

It’s not much of a difference to being best friends and connected from childhood to now, with a string woven from memories of summers and winters and years of playing, laughing, Tooru’s voice and his own grin. The only difference is that his heart beats so much faster when it’s about Tooru now, that he dreams about him, all the time and forever and that he’s so, so fucking doomed.

It honestly didn’t take much for Hajime to discover things other than platonic love in Tooru, like the curve of his pale back when he undresses, the soft hair in his neck, the ivory shift of his bones under skin that can never glow from Hajime’s kisses. Maybe Hajime’s just always adored him, in secret and silence, deep down in the bottom of his whole being. Maybe it’s always been like this and he just didn’t know.

“Hajime, hurry up!”

Oh, he’s been spacing out again. It tends to happen when he tries not to blush around Tooru recently. Shit. His best friend is already a few steps ahead, and Hajime catches up to him with a light jog.

“Yeah yeah, ‘m coming. Hey, I forgot my lunch. Gimme some of yours later.”

“Whaaaat?”

They’re almost at school, the yard with chattering students already in sight. Hajime’s in a bad mood – no breakfast, exams are coming closer. Plus, Tooru hasn’t managed to get his usual cowlick out of his hair this morning, and it’s so cute that Hajime bites down on his lip before grinning. “I’m serious. Give me some of your food during break, or I’ll starve. Mom forgot to pack mine today.”

Tooru gasps and stares at him, as indignant as if Hajime’s just insulted his whole family including dead ancestors. “How can you ask such a thing of me?” He grasps his chest, stumbling forward like a dying actor in a shitty theatre play. “Oh you have forsaken me, my friend, for you are trying to steal the food I so badly need to grow up even stronger and more _handsome-_ ”

“Jesus Christ, cut it out,” Hajime says with a grin, even though he doesn’t want to, because Tooru’s too good at reading him and his bad moods. “If you don’t give me something, I’ll just steal it. And you’re not handsome, anyways. You’re a dumbass.”

Tooru stops stumbling and grins back at Hajime over his shoulder. “Is that so? Well, you need to catch me and my cute dumb ass first before you get anything from us!”

And then Tooru darts away without a warning. Hajime blinks. Is he serious? A race? That’s so childish – but like _hell_ he isn’t taking the challenge, he can’t let Tooru win like that.

“You asshole, you steal food from me all the time! C’mere, I’m gonna – hey, wait up!”

They haven’t raced to school in years, and it’s silly and stupid, but Tooru still celebrates his tight victory (one second ahead) with a little dance. Hajime stands by his side and shakes his head, bumping his fist into Tooru’s shoulder, “Congrats, you loser” – _shit_.

There it is, his new problem.

Hajime yanks back when the touch makes his skin crawl, fire trickling down his spine in languid blooming of heat. It’s too close, too intimate, and Hajime forces himself to breathe evenly.

Tooru doesn’t notice it. He’s already being swarmed by the first group of girls who just push Hajime aside. God, they’re so annoying. Hajime rolls his eyes and turns to leave for class, but Tooru calls after him.

“See you in practice, Iwa-chan!”

“Yeah, later,” Hajime says. He waves goodbye and runs inside as fast as he can.

Their names change with the places they go. At school, it’s bickering and teasing, friendly competition. Soon, it’ll be Hajime running away from Tooru’s touches and trying to hide the horrible jealousy that jolts through his veins when Tooru kisses yet another girl behind the school.

When they’re alone, it’s always been Hajime and Tooru.

Maybe he should end that. Maybe it’s time to give up and let go and try to fight himself out of this misery while he still can.

\---

The problem isn’t just Tooru and his presence and how his smile has Hajime’s heart thunder like crazy.

It’s the touches.

Hajime has never noticed just how much of a touch-needy person his best friend is. It only comes to his attention after every little graze of Tooru’s lithe fingers makes his body shiver, skin bleeding fire into the stream of his boiling blood where Tooru claps his neck as praise during practice, holds his hand when pulling him forward, pinches his ear to mock him. It’s a slow, almost dream-like process, and then Hajime is drowning in the beat of his own heart and feelings he never, never wanted to have for Tooru, for a boy, for his best friend.

It’s everything, all of Tooru that drives him insane, and the touches are just the final push that makes him stumble over the cliff and into an abyss. But none of those touches belong to Hajime, as much as he wants to own them. He can’t kiss Tooru like a girl, can’t wrap his arms around his neck and find out whether he tastes like he smells, ocean and a trace of peaches, forest, wind. Tooru’s fingers are for everyone who wants them, and he gives away his attention and affection as though they’re nothing special.

Hajime wonders if it’s egoistic to decide this on his own – but there’s just one thing he can do.

He can’t touch Tooru anymore.

\---

At the first break, he still goes to look for Tooru, because his stomach is growling like crazy (and he really did forget his lunch. It wasn’t just to mock Tooru by stealing his food.)

“Kunimi, have you seen Oikawa?” The team’s having lunch together yet again, sitting under one of the large cherry trees on the yard. Kindaichi’s asleep against Kunimi’s shoulder, snoring. Hajime almost laughs at his face, but Kunimi raises a finger to his lips and whispers “shhh”. Then, after checking that Kindaichi’s still asleep, he says:

“Dunno. I think he’s off with another girl.”

Oh. That hurts more than Hajime expected. He falls down by Kunimi’s side and drops his head against the tree. “Mhm. Okay.”

Kunimi looks at him from the side. “Aren’t you gonna go look for him? Or at least tell him to stop with the girls? He’s only given in to their attempts recently, right… I wonder what changed his mind.” He tries to push a drooling Kindaichi away as gentle as possible, but the younger teammate mumbles something and curls against Kunimi. Hajime grins, and then he closes his eyes.

“I don’t care. Just wanted to steal his lunch, that’s all. Forgot mine today.”

“So you don’t mind him going around and messing with girls?” Kunimi asks.

“Why would I?”

“Hm, you’re right. After all, you’re the one who always tells him to take better care of himself. That probably involves having some fun as well. Here, have this.”

“Huh? Nah, you don’t have to – thanks.” Hajime accepts the offered bento with a surprised smile. It’s nothing special, just a bit of rice with meat and dark sauce, but it’ll satisfy his stomach for now. Kunimi just nods and closes his eyes, too. They all haven’t gotten a lot of sleep recently with how hard they work.

Hajime eats in silence. When he’s done, he returns the empty box to Kunimi, and just as the bell rings, Tooru appears from behind the school building with his hair in a mess and red lips.

Hajime doesn’t say a word when Tooru bounces to his side. “Iwa-chan, didn’t you want to steal my bento? Or were you unable to-”

“I got some from Kunimi. I’m not hungry anymore.”

He lets Tooru stand where he is and ducks his head to blend in with the rest of the students that push back into the building. Yeah, it hurts being an asshole, and Hajime’s damn glad that he doesn’t have to see Tooru’s face right now – but he knows that it’s not that easy to push his best friend away once and for all.

He still feels like he just hurt a child that doesn’t know any better.

\---

When Tooru hugs him in the locker room after practice, Hajime pushes him away.

“Hajime?” Tooru says, soft. He sounds like he’s going to cry. “What’s wrong? You’ve been so quiet all day. Are you okay?”

He can’t look at him. Hajime turns away, and when a warm hand brushes against his shoulder, he slaps it off as hard as he can.

“Don’t.”

The gym door slams against the wall when Hajime stomps out. He can’t do this. His skin tingles, sings, the melody of Tooru’s touch echoing inside his bones.

“What’d I do? Talk to me, what did I do? Hajime – hey!” Tooru is shouting now, and Hajime knows the way his bottom lip shivers without seeing him, knows the cartography of his sadness and his deep, soul-devouring fear of rejection.

“It’s not your fault,” he lies, and then, “I’ll be fine.”

“Talk to me. Please,” Tooru says. “Hajime.”

He doesn’t. He leaves, alone, and walks the old path back home without Tooru.

\---

During the next practice, everything is okay. Tooru’s brightness on the court could outshine the sun, and Hajime forces his usual self to make an appearance so that his teammates don’t ask stupid questions.

They warm-up and play, and even the bickering is nothing short of typical. Somehow, it tastes sour in Hajime’s mouth. He wipes sweat off his forehead after the fifteenth spike and glares at Tooru.

“Hey.”

“Hm?” Tooru looks at him, turning away from a conversation with Kindaichi. “Yes?”

“Give me a higher toss next time.”

Tooru’s lips curl into a grin. “Maybe you just have to jump a bit better, Iwa-chan?”

 “Shut up and toss higher.” When they fight like this, it’s almost normal. Almost.

“Aww, don’t be like that. It was a damn good toss, and you know it. Maybe you’re having a bad day, or you’re mad that the girls are still only cheering on me and not you?”

“What the – c’mere you asshole! I’m gonna show you what a bad day is!”

“Wahh, Iwa-chan! Stop it! Kunimi-chan, I’m being bullied again!”

Kunimi’s face across the court twists into an annoyed grimace. “You put this on yourself, Oikawa-san.”

Tooru’s pout may be adorable to some people, but Hajime isn’t fooled by it. He slaps the back of Tooru’s head and grunts: “Get back to the game, idiot. We’ve got a few more hours of training ahead, and I’m in no mood for your bullshit.”

“You’re so mean, Iwa-chan,” Tooru teases back and grins. He puts a hand on his hip and cocks it, knowing so well what effect it has on the hoard of nervous girls by the sideline.

Hajime rolls his eyes and lifts his middle finger at Tooru. “You can complain all you want after we get this freak quick right.”

They’ve been trying to copy and improve that incredible attack from Karasuno for days now, but it still has its flaws. The mention of their new technique swings Tooru’s full attention back in the game. He rolls his neck and sighs, dark and low, when his joints crack back into place. Hajime tires not to stare at the soft curve of his neck and shoulder. “Let’s do it, then.”

Hajime breathes, deep. “Alright.”

The coach claps his hands and everyone gets back into position. Hajime focuses his eyes on the net, waiting for the attack. When he’s playing volleyball, nothing else matters.

It doesn’t matter whether Hajime’s straight or gay or has fallen so deeply for Tooru that he can’t see the sky anymore. It doesn’t matter because whatever Hajime feels, whatever rages through his veins when Tooru grazes his arm, whatever tears at the sanity of his heart when Tooru’s arms close around him after a victory – whatever happens, Hajime is silent. He doesn’t even wait for anything anymore, for a sign or a hint that Tooru is different around him – shy, adoring, with glances that spell love without letters and _‘please be mine’_ without sound.

Hajime doesn’t dare to believe in that. Because doing that would mean that there’s hope, a silver lining or some other romantic bullshit.

Tooru spreads his touches like they’re gifts, and the girls love him for it. The privilege of his skin isn’t special, isn’t just for Hajime.

When Tooru waves at the three girls who sit besides the court, all of them blush and break into excited squealing. “Ya-hoo, ladies!” Tooru mastered the art of breaking hearts with a single grin lifetimes ago.

(To break Hajime’s, it only took “wanna be best friends?” and two dark, curious eyes when they were six years old.)

Hajime simply can’t do it – falling for him even more. He can’t make an even dumber mistake than those smiling, hope-bursting girls who bring his best friend cookies and cake and love letters drenched in perfume, just so Tooru will reward them with a wink, or even a touch against their arms. And they’re here right now, watching during practice, squeaking whenever one of Tooru’s tosses makes Hajime score.

“Oikawa-san, that was so amazing!”

Hajime doesn’t look at them. He stands in his position and waits for another ball from Tooru.

He may be a huge flirt, an asshole, and a stupid dumb idiot, but when it’s about the game, Tooru is focused. His long fingers touch the ball softly. Concentration shows in his every move, in the swift way he calculates the aim of his tosses, the complicated mechanism of the game around them. It’s not chess. They’re a team, not a dictatorship. And yet, Tooru’s guidance is the melody of their attacks, the dark beat of a drum, and the ear-flooding vibration of a deep note through their movements.

“Get it over here!” Hajime yells when they get a one-touch, and Tooru’s lips flash into a grin.

“Coming right up. This time, we’ll do it! Watch out-”

Hajime doesn’t need to see him to know that Tooru’s eyes are wide when he tosses, darkness swimming and blending with golden spots of light around the depth of his iris – _yes, this time,_ he thinks. _We got it, we can do it, this is it._

And the ball hits Hajime’s hand perfectly. _This_ angle, _this_ speed –

He slams it down and lands, pumping a fist into the air because he just _knows_.

Inbounds. Perfect aim, accuracy, strike and slash and _kill_. A murderous quick attack. They got it.

“Yes!” Victory floods him, his legs are shaking, everything feels light and warm. The team behind him howls, and Hajime turns around to grin at them.

“Iwa-chan, that was good!” Tooru is by his side, grin wide on his lips, and without giving Hajime time to react, he wraps an arm around him and pulls him into a hug. “We almost got it, almost! We can beat Karasuno, we can beat Tobio-chan and the tiny one-”

“Let go of me already,” Hajime says and fights against Tooru’s grip, but it’s useless. His setter grins, victory looking good on a face glowing with sweat and warmth.

“We did it – no, _you_ did it! You hit my toss just right, Hajime!”

He’s never called him by his first name during school. Before Hajime can react and snap at him, Tooru reaches out. His fingers touch Hajime’s cheeks, their foreheads pressing together.

Tooru’s eyes are gleaming fire, bright, alive. “We’ll beat them all. We’re going to win.”

And Hajime can only think one thing. _That’s how he touches his girls. That’s how he leans in before he kisses them. That’s how it could be if I was his, if he were mine, and the world would be another fucking reality where stupid dreams of love come true._

He wrestles himself out of Tooru’s hug and slaps his hand away. “Let’s go back to work.”

He has to talk to him after practice, but for now, Tooru’s too excited about their new attack, and he doesn’t seem to care that Hajime’s pushed him away again. Good. His chest hurts when he thinks _“it’s better you get used to it already.”_

Then the coach shouts for another one, and Hajime’s muscles take all control from his brain as his instincts kick back in. He can play without thinking, can aim and slam and win without one thought about Tooru’s smile.

\---

“Don’t touch me like I’m one of your girls.“

He never wanted Oikawa. He never wanted the star setter, the rising talent, the bright smiles and warm touches that he gives to everyone and anyone.

Hajime always only wanted one thing – all of him. With all his darkness and fear and the quiver of his soft lower lip when he loses or fails or tumbles, falls, collapses.

He just wanted _Tooru_.

“I’m not touching you like that!” Tooru saunters by his side.

They’re walking home after practice. Because Hajime has agreed to a talk, because he still has some foolish hope that a simple conversation will solve the problem of Tooru’s touches burning his skin like white-hot fire. And because Tooru seems adamant on solving this issue between them. As if he can do that.

Hajime rolls his neck with a sigh. His muscles ache.

“I’m not treating you like a girl,” Tooru insists.

“Yes you are. I don’t care what the fuck you do with your girls, how many you fuck or kiss, but focus on training. And don’t treat me like I’m one of your toys, either.” His lies are sharp, realistic. It’s something the normal Hajime may say.

And Tooru buys them, because he jolts like Hajime’s hit him with lightning. His shoulders shake for a second, pupils blown-out, dark. His body whispers anxiety to Hajime – insecurity. Tooru doesn’t know whether he means that or not. But after a few seconds, Tooru licks his lips.

His head falls low.

“You’re not a toy. You know that.” Tooru’s fists clench at his sides. Hajime keeps walking, walking, not looking at him directly because that would mean to lose a battle. Every single fight counts. This is war, and his bet is all or nothing.

“Then don’t fuckin’ stroke my cheeks like you’re trying to – shit, I don’t know. Your girls do whatever you want when you touch them like that, huh? I bet they do. But I’m not. I’m your friend, not some flirting game.”

“I never said you were.” Tooru catches up with him, and the way he slings his arm around Hajime’s is almost desperate. He’s shaking, Hajime notices. It’s not cold outside.

Hajime growls and pushes him off once more. “Stop that already, okay! I’m sick of you running around and throwing yourself in everyone’s arms. We’re not all your girls.”

Tooru hums an off-key melody. “The team has never complained, you know. You’re the only one.”

Hajime throws his hands up. “Fine! Then it’s just me, alright, I don’t care. Just stop touching me. We’re not six anymore, you can’t keep hugging me like that. It’s-” He stops. “It’s – well, you know.”

A strong, pale hand grips his jacket. “Say it.” Tooru’s voice is calm and low. There’s no shiver in it. Hajime stares forward.

“It’s not – right.” Shit. “Guys shouldn’t do that.” It’s the only weapon he’s got left.

He can hear Tooru grit his teeth. “Do what? Do you mean that it’s – gay?”

_No. No, please don’t._

Tooru breathes by his side. His hair moves softly when a swirl of wind runs through the air, slipping underneath their clothes and onto Hajime’s neck. He’s so beautiful, and Hajime hates himself so much for loving him.

Tooru’s mouth forms words, quiet, small. “You’re scared that everyone will think you’re gay when I hug you.” And then – “You’re my best friend, not a girl. I trust you, and I want to be close to you because-”

“See you tomorrow.” It’s only the surprise that loosens Tooru’s grip on his sleeve when Hajime rips himself apart with all might, and runs.

At home, he locks himself in his room and pulls the blanket over his head. Breathing is hard, his lungs ache and his heart burns, burns, burns so sharp and wild and terrible because maybe Tooru knows, maybe he doesn’t, and there’s no fucking hope for anything.

There has never been any.

\---

Hajime is a fucking coward.

[ to: Tooru]  
[ don’t talk to me outside of practice. don’t look at me except for when we play. and don’t you fucking dare touch me again. ]

[ from: Tooru ]  
[ tell me whats wrong with you already!! is it my fault?? please please haji, i dont know why youre mad and i don’t understand whats wrong. talk to me!! ]

_Incoming call: Tooru_

_Call denied._

[ to: Tooru ]  
[ don’t call me either. i have to figure something out. just stop with the touching. stop it. i don’t want it. ]

[ from: Tooru ]  
[ is it because of the gay thing? are you afraid that people will think youre gay? ]

[ to: Tooru ]  
[ yeah. no. can’t explain it and you won’t understand. okay just forget it. i need to figure this out and you can’t be close to me anymore. ]

[ from: Tooru ]  
[ do you think that i’m gay? haji do you think that i was treating you like a girl cause i was flirting with you? ]

[ to: Tooru ]  
[ give me time. i’ll stop replying now. ]

[ from: Tooru ]  
[ no you have to answer this please. do you want me to stop touching you cause you think i’m playing with you? ]

[ to: Tooru ]  
[ maybe. bye. ]

Hajime is an idiot and a coward. His phone keeps vibrating all night, and the following morning, but he ignores it. And it’s a miracle that Tooru doesn’t come to talk to him the next day. Maybe it’s because Hajime doesn’t even look at him.

He doesn’t speak to Tooru. He makes sure their eyes don’t meet and that his own hands are far, far away from Tooru’s skin.

It’s impossible to not watch him from the corner of his eye, at least, and what Hajime sees breaks his stupid heart.

Tooru always looks like he’s going to cry.

\---

A week passes by. There’s two practice matches and hours of training and so much school work that Hajime feels like he’s drowning. None of those things keep him from thinking about Tooru.

He hasn’t felt Tooru’s skin in a week. They don’t walk home together. One day, Hajime thinks that he hears Tooru cry just after he’s left the locker room, but he doesn’t go back. Instead, he runs home as fast as he can, and throws up in the toilet because his lungs and stomach can’t handle hours of practice and all the strain, the stress, the stupid desperation.

They win one practice match after another. Tooru is perfect on the court, magnificent even. Hajime lets their enemies shiver before the power of their new quick. It’s overwhelming, to win against them, the feeling of standing on top and having victory rush through your veins.

Hajime doesn’t high-five Tooru when the referee ends the match. He doesn’t get a slap against his shoulder in return, no hug, no forehead pressing against his own with the hot sweat of an exhausting game.  

Volleyball is a not a contact sport. Your teammates just get the ball to you. That’s all there is to it. You work as a team, you look at each other, but you don’t touch.

Their new attack is dangerous, effective, perfectly calculated. Hajime feels like he’s sacrificed too much for the victories they win with it.

\---

Kunimi has always been a bit too perceptive for Hajime’s taste.

“You’re quiet recently,” he says to Hajime a week later when they change after practice. They’re the last ones in the locker room, having finished cleaning duty after everyone already left for home, probably getting ramen noodles and laughing over how Kindaichi almost face-planted into the net today.

Hajime shrugs and pulls his shirt off, fetching a new one from his bag. “So? Exams are close. I’m stressed. Aren’t you, too?”

“That’s not what I mean. It’s like… well.” Kunimi shoulders his bag and rests a finger against his mouth, thinking for a moment. “When you get quiet, it’s usually because something’s up with you and Oikawa-san.”

Hajime stills. He looks at Kunimi. “You noticed?”

“It’s hard not to. When he’s not playing, Oikawa looks like you’ve… well. Like someone died, or like he lost something important. You guys not best friends anymore?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Hajime says. “It’ll be fine, don’t worry. It’s just something stupid.”

Kunimi sighs and puts his bag down again, slumping onto the bench. Hajime continues to change clothes, turning away from his teammate so he doesn’t feel his the drill of his stare so much. This is ridiculous. He and Tooru still work on the court, and that’s all that matters, it will be – oh, who is he trying to kid. It’s not okay at all to just be teammates. Hajime wants his best friend back.

Tooru’s name is carved into his mind and soul, and it hurts so bad.

He wants to be annoyed by Tooru again. He wants his touch for himself alone, he wants his mouth and cheeks and the warm hugs after a match all to himself, nobody else but Hajime holding Tooru tight, whispering gentle melodies into his ear. He wants and _wants_ and craves so many things, and he isn’t going to get fucking _anything_.

“Iwaizumi.” Kunimi’s hand touches his shoulder. It’s so different from when Tooru’s skin is against his. Hajime closes his eyes. He breathes. “You and Oikawa need to figure this out. For the team, and for yourselves. I have _no_ idea what’s going on, and I have no right to know. But just… do something, okay?” Kunimi pulls his hand back and Hajime hears him take his bag, strapping it over his shoulder.

“Okay.” The lie is heavy like lead against the roof of his mouth. “Yeah, I’ll deal with it.”

“Good.” There’s a loud metallic noise when Kunimi pulls the door of the locker room open. Hajime doesn’t hear him leave, and then Kunimi says something else.

“It’s not just that you’re quieter, you know. You guys both look downright miserable. Jeez, whatever’s going down between you has to be really bad.”

 _You have no idea,_ Hajime thinks, but doesn’t say anything. Kunimi leaves, closing the door with a mumbled “goodbye” and a loud bang.

_Their team has noticed. Their team has fucking noticed._

Hajime grits his teeth, his fists clenching around his jacket when he rips it off the hook and tears the little tag.

\---

“Iwaizumi-san, we need another broom. Would you please get one from the gym?” His teacher smiles when she asks him, and Hajime nods. He’s eager to hurry, because the sooner he’s done with cleaning duty, the earlier he can go to practice. There’s a closet for spare cleaning supplies down at the gym, in a little shed outside. It’s for the classrooms that are on the ground floor so nobody has to run up to the attic.

He opens the shed and fetches a broom, already turning around to leave again, when there’s a muffled groan. Hajime freezes. There’s someone behind the shed. The wood creaks, and Hajime can’t fight his own curiosity. He makes a small step and looks around the corner.

And sees closed eyes, pale lids, a warm mouth he’d recognize blind and dead pressing against someone else’s. It’s Tooru, with another girl – no.

Oh God. Hajime’s blood stops flowing. His heart stills.

Tooru is kissing a boy.

The boy leans against the wall, his legs spread just a bit, with Tooru’s hips pushing between them. Hajime stares. A whimper falls from Tooru’s lips, and he deepens the kiss. There’s a flash of soft pink, his tongue against the boy’s mouth, licking along his lips.

Hajime can’t breathe.

Tooru’s been playing him like some fucking instrument. Tooru touches that boy like he touches Hajime, except for the kissing – with a hug so warm and tight like Hajime thought Tooru only did for him, for him alone and nobody else.  

(His fingers are leaning against the boy’s cheeks, gentle, kind. Hajime has lost. The war is over.)

“Fuck.” His voice shatters around the word. He drops the broom.

“Iwaizumi-san?” the boy says, and there’s a tiny wet noise when Tooru’s mouth slips off his lips. They’re red-kissed and swollen.

“Hajime? Oh God, Hajime!”

Tooru whirls around to him, but Hajime spins and runs, and he’s fast as the wind that slashes against his face and maybe has his eyes water. He doesn’t cry, can’t, isn’t allowed. He has class.

The break’s over when he storms into the classroom and falls onto his chair. A girl asks something in a soft voice. Hajime doesn’t hear her.

He buries his face into his crossed arms and tries to breathe. It doesn’t work.

\---

It’s the first time that he skips practice.

Hajime sits through another three hours of school before he can finally flee, not giving Tooru the slightest chance to catch him. He just snatches his bag and flies down the stairs, out of the building, and into the bustling town. His way home is shorter in the other direction, but Hajime feels like he’s going to explode if he can’t be alone for just a moment, a second, an eternity.

There’s a dark alley behind a supermarket. He stops and drops his bag.

A storm has been coming all day. It begins to rain when Hajime chokes on the sob inside his throat.

He slams his forehead against the cold wall and bites his lip, bites until it bleeds. Then his fist crashes into the concrete. Pain jolt through his bones and into the back of his mind where the image of Tooru’s fingers on that asshole’s face bleed into the memories of a boy who used to be his best friend.

Tooru kisses boys. Tooru kisses girls and boys.

Hajime’s knuckles spring open into cracks of blood. He slides down the wall, forehead scraping over it, and it hurts. He doesn’t care.

Tooru likes boys, but not Hajime.

He’s gay or bisexual or whatever the fuck it’s called, but not for Hajime.

His touches will always belong to someone else.

The phone inside his pocket vibrates. Hajime needs an hour before he can get up, and looks at it while stumbling home. Ten messages from him. He deletes all of them.

The storm roars across the sky in ash-grey and black when Hajime gets home.

\---

“Hajime, would you come down and lend me a hand with dinner?”

Hajime pulls himself away from tracing the dark stain on the wall besides his bed. “Yeah, coming.”

He sits up and stretches until his joints crack back in place. His head feels empty, a faint buzz echoes through the lazy flow of his blood. It’s evening already, the sun drowning behind the horizon. He feels like he’s slept for a hundred years, his mouth is all dry and tastes bad, but a look at the clock tells him that he’s just been spacing out after school. Lying around, doing nothing. That’s all he’s been up to since –

Hajime closes his eyes and listens. Everything is so quiet without _him_. The rules that Hajime put up for them take it all away, the laughter and text messages and the smile that Tooru radiates everywhere.

_Don’t talk to me outside of practice. Don’t look at me except for when we play._

It hurts, his stupid heart.

_And don’t you fucking dare touch me again._

Tooru’s smile reverberates in his voice when he asks Hajime for homework. It echoes in the sound of his steps up the stairs. It sings and surges in the way Tooru dances to an old sad song about freedom and wind and autumn bleeding red and gold onto his skin when the leaves fall from the tree’s sky crowns.

He always dances when Hajime plays music in his room, no matter how stupid and cliché the song is. “Another one, please, Iwa-chan? You should dance too, it feels amazing!” Hajime complains and nags and says how Tooru’s motions look more like a thrashing animal than anything elegant or pretty.

His lies have gotten smoother over the past months.

In the end, he lets another song play for Tooru, and another and another. Tooru smiles, swirls, spins, tiptoe-dances around the room, lips wrapped around the lyrics and melodies melting into the curve of his bones. He dances so different from the way he plays on the court. Not the conductor of an orchestra. When they’re alone, Tooru isn’t the warrior that leads his army into victory.

_Tooru kisses girls and boys, but not Hajime._

It’s simple to describe. Tooru is always just one thing, one word, a few syllables breathed from Hajime’s lips. It’s the only word from one of the books they had to read for school that ever stuck with him.

“Incandescent,”Hajime says into the silence of his room.

In everything he does, Tooru blinds the world with his stupid light, and no one but Hajime knows that he’s not just white but all colours – blue and black and gold that echoes in the giggles of his ribs when Hajime tickles the sadness out of him after a bad game.

His room is dark without Tooru’s glow.

Hajime opens his eyes. His hands curl into fists, and he wants to tear something into pieces. The spot on his wall mocks him, stares back at him with dirt-brown colour, edges blurred and old, and Hajime bites back the growl that rises in the painful hole of his chest.

God, _why_. Why _Tooru_?

The picture of Tooru’s mouth against that boy’s returns to his mind.

He snatches a pillow and presses it against the stain on the wall, presses so hard that his fingers sink into the cotton and his knuckles hit the wall through the fabric. The stain is chocolate, smudged over his wallpaper, from years and years ago when Tooru and him ate sweets for his birthday and watched movies all night, until they got tired, fell asleep with sugar-sweet mouths and satisfied hearts in the corner of his bed.

“Hajime!” his mother calls again.

The pillow slips down the wall when Hajime gets up. His breath is too quick, ragged.

“Sorry! I’m here, coming!”

He stomps downstairs and apologizes again, giving his mother a soft smile. She waves him off. “It’s fine, dear. Here, can you cut the tomatoes for me? Take out the insides and throw them into the pot. Your father’s working late, so I have some more time to prepare.”

“Sure.” The knife is still warm when Hajime takes it from her hands and starts to cut.

His father gets home when the soup’s just done. They eat together and Hajime’s talking about his day in school when he gets a sudden idea. “Dad, do we still have some of the wallpaper left? The one you put into my room?”

“I think so,” his father says and furrows his brows. “Hm. There might be some in the garage. Why?”

“Just asking. Think I wanna fix the stain on my wall.”

When they’re done eating and he’s helped his mother with the dishes, Hajime vanishes into the garage. His father keeps all kinds of things down here – his gardening tools, old screws for a motorbike he used to have, a broken bicycle that Hajime loved to death when he was smaller. There’s only one shelf for painting stuff, though, and Hajime doesn’t find any wallpaper. Instead, he almost trips over an old pot of paint.

“Shit – fuck, who even put that there?”

Maybe this’ll help with the stain. He squats down to read the label. It says “alpine-white”. He’d need a lot of layers to cover the stain.

Shit. Fucking stupid _shit_. It won’t help anyways. Painting it over, ripping it off, tearing the whole goddamn wall down wouldn’t erase this stupid, stupid chocolate. The room is dark around him. It’s cold, and wet, and Hajime’s skin crawls and itches and he wants it all to _end_. He can’t paint it over. He can’t find a colour that matches, can’t get the same blue and snow-white and dark lines on soft paper because the pattern is far too old and nothing fits over it perfectly enough to conceal that goddamn stain.

Hajime bites his knuckles and sinks down, pulling his knees close just to bury his face against the hard bones shifting underneath his skin.

It feels like an eternity later when Hajime finally moves to check how much paint’s left inside. The lid comes off with a crackling noise. Crumbs of white tumble over his hands. Hajime tilts the pot.

It’s empty. The last traces of paint have faded into an ash grey, dried to the bottom of the pot, dark lines cracking its surface.  

Hajime goes back inside and wipes his tears under the blanket. He remains silent in the softness of his pillow until he falls asleep.

\---

His mother’s voice jolts him awake.

“Hajime, come down! Hurry!”

He has no idea what’s going on, but Hajime still groans and lifts his ass off the bed. It’s almost midnight, what the hell? His head is heavy and stuffed, and there’s a bad taste on his tongue. Hajime considers brushing his teeth, but he’s too tired for that shit.

“Coming…” The old wooden stairs creak when he stomps down, yawning and rubbing his stomach under his shirt. It’s only now that he notices how he hasn’t even put on his pajamas. Great.

“Tooru is here,” his mother says when Hajime comes into the corridor. And before Hajime can say anything else, there’s a whoosh and a dart of wet, brown hair, and Tooru lands in his arms.

“What the fuck – what are you doing here!” Hajime yells, but his mother slaps the back of his head.

“Where are your manners! He said he needs to talk to you very urgently, and he ran all the way through this horrible thunderstorm. Get him some dry clothes, will you.” She smiles fondly at Tooru as he buries himself into Hajime’s body.

 _He ran here,_ it echoes inside Hajime’s head. Tooru’s clothes are dripping wet, his fingers ice-cold on Hajime’s neck. It’s been thundering all night, but he’s here. He _ran_ here.

Hajime doesn’t hug him back. He just slowly steps back, making Tooru follow with tiny stumbles, long elegant arms locked around his neck.

“And of course,” his mother throws him a sharp glare, “Tooru can stay the night. I’ll call his mother.”

Her eyes tell Hajime _‘go figure this out’._ Resistance impossible. He sighs and nods, more than just a bit unwilling. “Fine. C’mon, you heavy idiot.”

Tooru follows him up the stairs without letting go of Hajime. It’s hard to walk with his best friend acting like a boa constrictor, but Hajime manages to push him into the bathroom and point at the shower. “Hot water will be here in a few. I’ll get you clothes.”

“I need to talk to you,” Tooru says. “Please.” His skin is pale and soaked, water dripping from his hair down to where his drenched shoes squeak on the tiles. Hajime turns away and steps outside. He gets some old clothes from his room, a shirt that’s torn at the edges with the band’s logo on it long faded away, and dark sweatpants. Tooru takes them out of his hands with a meek “thanks”.

Just before Hajime leaves the bathroom, he turns around once more.

“Okay. We can talk after you shower.”

\---

The moment that Tooru returns and sits down on the bed, Hajime crosses his arms and stares at him. Hajime’s old shirt keeps slipping off Tooru’s shoulder, teasing him. Everything he wears is big on Tooru, and right now, he looks so small and lost, slumping down before Hajime.

“I’m sorry I came here in the middle of the night.”

“Can’t be changed. You any warmer?”

Tooru nods. A tiny smile blooms on his lips. “Yeah. Your clothes are nice, they smell like you.”

And that’s where Hajime cuts him off. “Stop. Don’t say that. This is why I said you shouldn’t talk to me anymore.”

“Hajime, I’m here to talk now, and you said you’d let me.” Tooru shuffles closer and leans forward a bit. His hair curls at the tips, and a drop of water runs over Tooru’s slender neck. “You just need to listen, you don’t even have to say anything-“

“Okay, before you talk – look. You got your girls and now you even have boys, and – fuck, you have _everyone_ , so what else do you want? I’m still your friend, I just need time to figure things out, to… be away from you for a while. You can deal without me. You can play your games without me.”

He doesn’t want to stay away. He’s making up the stupidest reasons for why Tooru can’t be close to him anymore, and now Hajime himself doesn’t even believe them anymore. Tooru _owns_ him, the whole world and Hajime, along with all the other hopeful idiots who thought they could win Tooru’s heart. Now he’s not better than them. Or maybe he is, because right then, Tooru takes his hand and presses his lips against Hajime’s knuckles.

“Please, listen to me, Just – just listen, I beg you.” Tooru chokes out, like there’s a heavy weight in his throat. Hajime blinks and looks down on his hand, where Tooru speaks into his skin like he’s whispering a prayer to a god.

“Okay. But that’s the last time. You – you stop talking to me after this.”

_Come back to me. Why can’t you feel the same?_

Tooru nods, smiles through watery eyes. “I promise.” He doesn’t let go of Hajime’s hand, and takes a deep breath.

Hajime bites his lip until it tastes red and metallic, sending pleas to everything holy and mighty that this will be over quickly. That Tooru will simply call him gay and make a bit of fun of him, before demanding that things go back to what they were. And of course Hajime would smile and promise him the world, he’d try his best and pretend and _smile_ –

“I only want to kiss you.”

And just like that, Hajime forgets how to breathe.

Tooru is hunched of his hand, and his mouth pours little wet whimpers over his skin and into the core of Hajime’s heart.

“But all those girls…”.

“Let me explain!” Tooru jolts upright again, hair a wave of darkness in the dim light of Hajime’s room. He’s on Hajime’s lap within seconds, pushing him down, arms by his face and forehead touching Hajime’s with a shivering gentleness.

There’s a desperation in his words that Hajime doesn’t recognize from Tooru.

“I did it because you wouldn’t touch me anymore! You – you messed me up. God, you almost broke me apart, with your distance and that cold expression of yours, how you pull away from me as if you _know_. As if you know how much I want you to be the one who kisses me. I need this, Hajime, I need – need to be touched. By you. And that’s what I didn’t know before.” Tooru’s breath is a sob, ragged and broken. “That it’s you, you, always you. That only you can make me feel like this, like I’m _okay_. You make me feel calm and alive and like I’m something good. You were always there, and then you suddenly left me alone.”

He’s crying. Tooru cries, and the tears are translucent and shimmer softly on his cheeks, and he’s so unfairly beautiful that Hajime feels his throat go tight around the words _‘please let me be yours’._

Hajime can’t speak. He lies there, below Tooru, in the bed that they’ve celebrated all their birthdays on when Tooru stayed over late at night, where they watched thousands of movies and felt each other’s breath against warm, sweaty skin on hot summer nights before falling asleep with stars in their minds.

And all he can choke out after a few moments is: “…what?”

Tooru’s words slur together like ink in water. “I kissed the girls because I thought it would be enough for me. But they don’t come near you. Then I thought that if I fell in love with a girl, I would forget about you. That I could stop thinking about kissing you instead, and that one of them could replace you in my mind when all I do is think about you. But – but when you told me to stop touching you – I d-didn’t know what to do. I tried to kiss a boy, and I thought of you _again_.”

“Tooru.”

“ _God_ , do you know how miserable I’ve been without you? I can’t focus, I can’t even think straight when you’re not – when you’re not there, when you don’t slap my shoulder after a game or, or do stupid Hajime-things like squeezing me before we go home! I tried to pretend that it’s fine. But you thought I was playing when I wasn’t. I hoped you’d fall in love with me when I touched you like that. And even if you didn’t, I’d still have my friend. But you pushed me away, and I didn’t know – I didn’t know-”

“Tooru, listen to me.”

“I need you. I need you so badly, Haji, I need you and I can’t even fucking _breathe_ without you. I’m – what do you want me to say. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll say what you want. Please don’t leave me. Just – _please_.”

“Shut up for a second!” Hajime cups his face and his nose touches Tooru’s, cold against warm. “Okay. Now, breathe. Can you do that for me? Good. Now – just – tell me _why_.”

Tooru goes speechless for one long, painful minute. His tears drip down onto Hajime’s face, salt running into the gap of his lips.

“What?” Tooru finally says.

“Why?” Hajime asks, voice a shattered whisper. “Why do you want me to kiss you?”

“You – _why_? Why?!” Tooru stares at him through tear-dark lashes, and his cheek are red and raw and there’s a split in his lip where some blood falls down. “Because it’s always you, okay, because I want to be together with you and I like you so goddamn much that it’s killing me-”

He’s still beautiful, Hajime thinks, even when he cries, and he touches Tooru’s mouth – soft, careful.

“Tooru, it’s okay.”

“Kissing them felt like breathing underwater or something,” Tooru whispers against his lips. His sobs have died into raw hiccups. “I thought it was over. I thought I had made you hate me.”

“Idiot,” Hajime says. “I could never hate you. I wanted to be one of the girls, I wanted to be that boy.”

“Oh.” The room is silent. And then, it’s easy, and warm.

Hajime smiles when Tooru relaxes. They’re finally falling into place.

“Yeah. Can you stop crying now?”

“Mh-hm.” Tooru sinks down on him, tucks his face under Hajime’s chin. He fits there perfectly. Hajime’s hand falls onto Tooru’s neck as natural as if they’ve been carved from the same piece of the universe.

“You can touch me again,” Hajime promises into the silence.

Tooru is still crying, but his smile is a myriad of stars burning on Hajime’s skin. He doesn’t say anything when his hand lifts Hajime’s wrist, and he kisses him where his pulse beats loud and endless.

\---

Tooru stays the night.

They lie in Hajime’s bed, wordless, eyes locked as they get lost in each other. The moonlight paints shadows and silver on Tooru’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Hajime traces them with his fingertips until Tooru makes a soft, purring noise, and curls into the nest of Hajime’s body and blanket like it’s his home.

They cling and claw at each other’s skin, hard, rough and wild and clumsy. Tooru holds him so tight that Hajime can barely breathe, but it’s just right. It’s perfect like this, even with all the bloody and broken edges.

Hajime’s nails leave half-moon shapes in Tooru’s neck and back. Tooru almost rips his shirt apart with how hard he tugs at it, as if he can’t believe that they’re finally so close, again, in the end. His sobs die in Hajime’s embrace.

Hajime doesn’t once let go of him. All his bones ache, but his knuckles burn where Tooru kissed them, and that’s finally one of his touches that only belongs to Hajime.

\---

Neither of them says the three words.

Hajime feels that they’re too large for his mouth. He can’t say them out loud. Their weight is a star’s gallon of silver on his tongue, liquid and slick in his throat, spreading until the words melt into the darkest corners of his heart.

And then they’re too small, because it feels insulting and wrong to wrap years of golden warmth and soft hair and fingers lacing together when there was a thunderstorm into words as simple as those.

But somehow, one of them has the right words.

“Can I kiss you?” Tooru asks when the sun rises.

Hajime touches his forehead against Tooru’s and steals his breath away.


End file.
